


Moderation Is A Memory

by verushka70



Series: Another Life [7]
Category: due South
Genre: BDSM, Drama, M/M, Romance, Series: Another Life, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-20
Updated: 2000-01-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 09:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: Fraser and Ray's previous heart-to-heart opens the door to further exploration with bondage.This story is a sequel toGot Into Me.





	Moderation Is A Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). It has not been changed (nor will it be) on import to the AO3, except to more appropriately or descriptively tag, and to fix broken web links. Ever so grateful to [Open Doors](http://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/) and to [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza), for making the archive import to AO3 happen. TYK!

Moderation Is A Memory

Pairing/warning/rating: Fraser/Kowalski, B&D kink, NC-17

Disclaimer: Fraser and Ray Kowalski belong to Alliance. I'm just playing with them... _hard_. They will not be permanently damaged. ;) 

This is a sequel to Got Into Me. This story, "Moderation..." was originally posted to DSX as two stories: 1) "Johnny Feelgood" and 2) "All The Better For You". They have been combined into this one story for archiving. 

Summary: Fraser. Ray. Handcuffs, leg shackles, a blindfold and ...other binding. And lots and lots of love. 

Great thanks to Barbara Webb and Erica for feedback, reality checks and wonderful beta reading.  
  

#### Moderation Is A Memory

 

He is sitting at his desk, going over some paperwork. Humming to himself. 

I find it very odd, very incongruous, to have the picture in mind of him on his knees, fellating me; and yet to see before my eyes, Ray "Vecchio", Detective First Grade, 27th Precinct, Chicago Police Department, who bows to no one, who doesn't back down. Who will take on anyone who deserves to be taken on. 

The two pictures meld into one for a split second when he looks up and sees me at the door to the squad room, and the expression on his face shifts slightly -- actually only the expression in his eyes changes. For that split second, the satisfied, sensual animal he is when he's alone with me shows itself in a slight slitting of his eyes, a very slight drop of his gaze, a rapid blink of the long blond lashes, and then his eyes meeting mine again. 

There is absolutely nothing coquettish about it. It is purely knowing. Knowing what he does to me. Knowing that I love it. Knowing what I do to him. Knowing that he loves it. Knowing the subtle way things have recently changed and that we will endeavour together to further change them. 

Knowing how instantaneously that look can arouse me, because I recognize in it tiny slices of his expression when he is bringing me to orgasm... or when I am bringing him to orgasm. 

That silent split second seems to last an eternity, during which the rest of the world retreats. I feel a momentous communication between us. There is recognition, delight, desire, and challenge in the look we exchange. But before I know it, the sounds of people talking, phones ringing, and typewriters typing forms come rushing back to my hearing. And my erection, thankfully hidden beneath my Serge tunic, seems inappropriate and bestial. 

I feel the arousal seep through me even as I feel the draining of that arousal close on its heels. For just a moment, I continue to stand there, and watch his expression change back to his every-day, Detective First Grade who-hates-paperwork expression. He waves me over, not saying anything, and dropping his eyes back to his paperwork. Perhaps he, like me, can not yet speak. Perhaps he needs a moment to loosen his throat, momentarily constricted with stifled desire and arousal. 

But when I don't immediately walk towards his desk, he looks up again, and there is briefly another expression on his face. Questioning, curious... could it be slightly fearful? He levels that gaze at me, and again it seems like we communicate without saying anything. _Why are you standing there? Why aren't you coming over here?_ his gaze seems to say. And I don't know if my gaze communicates it, but I am thinking, _I will... all in good time._ And his expression changes subtly again... _Okay, okay. I can wait. I'm not going anywhere._

And then I take a step, and he drops his gaze again, and I continue walking over to the chair in front of his desk where I usually sit. 

Can anyone but us see this going on? Can anyone guess what is different between us? Am I imagining all of it, making it up? 

But it feels like he understood; feels like we communicated. 

Is it shameful that I derive so much pleasure -- mental pleasure, emotional pleasure, and not merely physical pleasure -- from knowing of Ray's trust and his willingness to obey me? I don't know. 

Shameful or not, it is arousing. 

"Fraser," he says in a normal voice, not looking at me. He looks at the paperwork as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. 

Is it that he _can't_ meet my gaze right now? I look away, so he doesn't have to. We don't want people getting suspicious. 

"Hello, Ray," I say, watching Francesca twirl a lock of her hair while she talks with someone on the phone. 

"Hiya," he says, and that sounds much warmer -- and less normal -- than his previous word. 

"Are you just about ready? It's nearly six, Ray," I tell him. I didn't mean for it to sound like a command. 

"Yeah, uh, yeah... I just gotta pick something up from lockup..." 

I can finally turn to look at him, and look at him normally. His eyes crinkle at the corners with some unspoken private joke he'll share with me later, I presume. The smile in his eyes ghosts across his mouth even as his eyes take on another quality -- a darker, more daring one. 

I wonder what is on his mind. 

"Lemme throw my jacket on..." he says, and turns to get his jacket. I stand up from my seat at his desk. 

"Certainly," I say, trying to soften my earlier command-like statement. 

He is humming again, a catchy little song that seems somehow familiar, yet that I'm sure I haven't heard before. I look out over the squad room, seeing the hum of activity, even this late in the day, and wonder about the little song he is humming and that last look in his eyes. 

"C'mon," he says, jacket on. "Let's hit the lockup, an' then we can get something ta eat." 

"All right," I agree. 

Am I just overreacting, to think that almost everything I say now seems like a command, or a request, or giving permission? Is this what he intended? 

We head for the cells, and he stops at the equipment checkout. 

"Hey, Jim, I need a pair of leg shackles," he tells the officer behind the counter. 

I can feel the creep of hot blood up from my collar and turn away, pretending to examine the empty jail cells and their small, flat pallets for the prisoners. 

"Sure thing, Ray. Transferring a prisoner?" The officer asks him. "Sign here, let me get 'em." 

"Tomorrow morning, first thing, from the 16th. Doin' a favour for a buddy over at the 16th," Ray tells him. I wonder if that is true. But why not pick them up tomorrow? Equipment checkout opens up at 6 am... 

Don't be ridiculous. You know what the leg shackles are for. 

The entire exchange is tremendously arousing. No doubt as Ray intended it to be. I am, once again, thankful for the Serge tunic. I stand with my back to Ray, pretending to survey the cells, my hands clasped behind my back, as if nothing at all untoward were happening. 

"There ya go," Officer Jim says, and I hear the clank and rattle of metal on metal. 

"Thanks a lot, Jim. See ya tomorrow." 

"See ya." 

Ray turns and walks out, tossing a casual "C'mon, Frase," over his shoulder to me. I briefly nod at the equipment checkout officer, hoping that the bright color has drained from my face, and follow Ray. 

How he manages to lead, while seeming to put me in charge, is beyond me. It is ...another mystery. I am beginning to stop trying to figure these things out in a rational way... and just "go with it", as Ray would say. They are mysteries. I do not know if I will ever figure them out. I don't count on being able to. 

We get into the GTO and he looks straight ahead, out the windshield. He starts the engine, revving it hot-rod style. He's full of bravado and his expression seems impenetrable now. Yet... there's a hint of nervousness about him, too. 

The leg shackles lie on the seat between us. 

He begins humming again, and then, after one last rev of the engine, he picks them up -- without looking at them, or me, or anywhere but out the windshield. 

"Here," he says, stiffly thrusting the handful of clanging metal at me. "Take 'em. You might as well get used to 'em." 

"I..." I don't finish what I was about to say. I don't even know what I was about to say. 

"They're keyed the same as my handcuffs -- all of 'em are," he says, in a normal conversational tone, looking in the rear view mirror and the side mirror as he backs his car out of his parking space. 

He puts the car into gear almost with a flourish, and we are on our way to his apartment. He is humming that song again. 

Despite the loose fit of my riding pants and my boxers, the position I am sitting in makes them rather less loose than they would normally be... and I notice this because of the fierce erection I have. 

He still hasn't looked at me, and as we drive, he digs in his jacket pocket for his keys. Still humming. Finding them, he again thrusts his hand across the invisible line between us on the front seat, offering them to me. He stops humming. 

"The handcuff key is on here," he says, again, in a normal conversational tone of voice. 

I take the keys silently. 

Of course, now he is feeling along the back of his belt as he drives, holding the steering wheel one-handed. He unclips the handcuffs from his belt. And he is still humming. 

These he hands to me wordlessly. I take them as soon as they are thrust at me, but I brush his hand with my own while doing so. More of a stroke through his hand than a brush. 

He stops humming. 

He glances over at me, and his outward cool and collected demeanour is utterly shattered by the look in his eyes. It is one of nervousness, hopefulness, desire, love. 

"Not here, Frase," he says, with almost a pleading look. 

"I know," I tell him, and take the handcuffs and hold them in my lap. 

It is all I can do to contain my excitement, but I take his keys and unlock both sides of the handcuffs, and both sides of the leg shackles. There is a chain connecting the leg shackles, just barely long enough for a pathetically abbreviated step. No one could hope to escape, wearing these; and of course that is the point. 

Then I shut all of them, one by one, listening to the satisfying metallic click. 

Ray begins humming again. It is a nervous, but excited sound. 

* * * 

He has just hung up the phone from the pizza restaurant that usually delivers to his apartment. I have been standing near his radiator, considering all possible immovable objects that the handcuffs and leg shackles could be cuffed to. The radiator is a possibility, but then we would be on the floor, a bit beyond where the rug ends. It's a nice floor, but it is still a hardwood floor. 

I hesitate to go into the bedroom, though the brass bed frame is perfect for these, simply because I fear if we go in there now, we will never come out, and the pizza will go back to the pizza restaurant, undelivered. 

Ray is still humming. He comes over, as if he were going to talk to me or discuss this with me, but instead he starts looking through his CD collection, rather purposefully. 

He is singing under his breath. The same song he was humming. It is a simple song, I realize, but catchy. 

"Johnny Feelgood, Johnny right on, Johnny miss you, Johnny light on, Johnny makes me feel strangely good about myself," he sings, almost in a whisper. "Moderation is a memory, dive right in and let him send me, I could take this in doses large enough to kill..." 

He goes back to humming for a bit, then segues into singing. "...'til he knocked me down, started draggin' me around, in the back of his convertible car... and I liked it, lemme tell you, I liked it, more and more... Crimson and clover, soon he's taken over, all my senses now..." 

Still he searches through his CDs, as if not paying attention to what he is singing... and yet I am certain it is for my benefit. It is telling me how rough I can be with him... and that he will like it. 

"Would these scratch the finish on your bed frame?" I ask him, holding up the handcuffs in one hand, and the shackles in the other. They jingle. 

"I dunno," he says, not looking at me. "Damn it, where is it? I dunno, Fraser. Did they scratch it before?" 

Still he does not look at me, still he looks through his CDs. The vulnerable, close-shorn back of his head is turned toward me. His ears stick out slightly in a most endearing way. 

"I don't recall," I answer. 

"You don't recall? You, the man who notices the kind of buttons someone is wearing on their shirt, just in case those buttons make an impression in some dirt the guy gets thrown in, in the process of committing a crime?" he says flippantly, but cheerily. " _You_ don't recall whether or not my handcuffs scratched the brass on my bed frame?" 

Still he does not look at me and continues looking through his CDs, bent over to look at the lower shelves, hands on his knees. 

I wonder if he is trying to entice me by his ...position. 

"I was rather distracted at the time," I reply dryly. 

He looks up at me, smiling, and half laughs, blushing. "Ya were, weren'tcha," he says, sounding pleased and yet abashed, and straightens up to his full height. 

"I was," I tell him solemnly, but my voice betrays the fact that I find relieved humor in his blush and tone of voice. 

"Damn it," he says, without conviction, with one last look at the CD collection. He shoots me one more quick glance, and then looks around at his living room. He steps away and settles onto the couch. 

"Ya gonna stand there holding those, or are ya gonna use 'em?" he asks, as if he doesn't really care. Then he picks up the remote control and turns on the television. He is humming again, clicking through the channels rapidly. 

"I'm going to use them," I tell him. "I was just considering all the possible places they could be anchored in your apartment. The radiator being one of them." 

The fact that we are discussing this so normally seems... very strange. And very arousing. Apparently not only for me. He pulls at the crotch of his jeans. 

"Faucets, too, would be good," I tell him. "Besides the obvious bed frame, and the radiator pipes. The bathroom sink... better yet, the bathtub." I can play this game too. 

"Faucets," he says thoughtfully, glancing up at the ceiling innocently. "Any light fixtures?" 

I look up. The picture in my mind is outrageous and I must smile. "You don't have a chandelier, Ray." 

"I don't, do I. Damn," he says, turning his gaze to look over at me. 

"Doorknobs," I say, taking a step towards him. 

"Those could work," he says, meeting my eyes. 

"They could," I say easily, walking over to him, and standing such that I block his view of the television. 

"You're blocking my view, Frase," he says, though he does not try to look at the television, and his eyes have not left my face. 

I take a breath. 

"Unbutton my Serge jacket, would you, Ray?" I can't seem to just command and demand things from him. 

One of his sandy colored eyebrows arches slightly. But he rises to his feet silently, and drops his eyes to the task at hand: unbuttoning my Serge. 

When he's done, I hold out the handcuffs in one hand and the shackles in the other. 

"Take these. Put them on the coffee table." 

He takes them from me wordlessly, and steps around me to set them on the table. Then he straightens again. 

"Kindly open my collar and take my jacket from me," I ask him. That wasn't very commanding. Kindly? 

But he steps in front of me again, and his hands shake slightly as they rise to my throat. He rips the Velcro closure open, and a slight smile crosses his face, though he does not meet my eyes. Then he walks around me, moving the table out of his way, and takes my jacket off me from behind. As a manservant would from his master. 

Belatedly I realize that's because I supposedly _am_ the, the "master"... for now, anyway. 

"What... should I do with it?" he says, standing behind me, his voice husky. 

It makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle with excitement. 

"Just... hang it on one of the hooks near your front door, for now," I tell him. 

He dutifully crosses the room to the front door and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall nearby. 

"Come and pick these up," I gesture at the handcuffs and shackles much more confidently than I feel, "and let's go in the bedroom." 

"Can ...could you do one thing for me, though?" he asks, so meekly my heart goes out to him. 

"Of course," I reply immediately, automatically, my voice softening in a decidedly un-master-like way. He must know I would do anything for him. 

"Could you, uh, keep yer riding pants on? Fer now?" he blushes, walking toward me. 

"Certainly," I reply, before realizing that's not particularly commanding. 

"Thanks," he whispers, and almost timidly leans in for a quick kiss. Just a peck, and then he is bending over to pick up the handcuffs and shackles. 

I grab his slim arm, not roughly, just to hold it. To know I can hold it and he won't pull it reflexively out of my grasp. "Yeah?" he asks me, expectantly. 

"Nothing," I whisper back. "Shall we?" I ask, jerking my head towards the bedroom, not releasing his arm. But something makes me loosen my grip and slide it back and forth slowly a few times. So that I'm not holding him so much as caressing him. 

"Yeah," he breathes, and then I do tug on his arm, and he comes along with me, like a schoolboy being led to his sentence, carrying the instruments of his punishment. 

But I can't recall ever seeing any schoolboys who went along eagerly, as he is. What little resistance he gives me is just so I must actually _pull_ him along, but it is a token resistance. The corners of his lips twitch, upturned, though he won't look at me. And surely few schoolboys are as tall as their schoolmasters, as Ray and I are to each other. 

The cuffs and shackles jangle as he moves with me down the short hall. 

* * * 

The way he stroked my arm... like you'd jack someone off, but so slow and gentle. I was already kinda hard... but that got me full-hard right away. I'm dragging my heels not cuz I don't wanna go, but cuz I dunno what's gonna happen. A little scared... but very excited. 

He tugs me into the room and pushes me gently in the direction of the bed, so I go there and sit down, cold stainless steel in my hands, jangling together. He's bent over, unlacing those damn long laces of the boots. He takes 'em off and puts them neatly up against the wall. 

Then he looks around the room, like he's looking for something. His eyes come back to me. 

"Lie down," he says softly, so I scoot back on the bed, kick my shoes off, and lay back. Handcuffs in one hand, shackles in the other. The metal's getting warm in my sweaty, nervous hands. 

"Let's, uhm, have this off you," he says, sitting next to me on the bed and tugging the hem of my shirt up. 

I jangle the cuffs and shackles. He blushes. 

"I didn't realize I'd have to be so literal," he says, with a nervous smile. "Put those down and take off your shirt." 

So I drop 'em, and grab the hem of my shirt and drag it off over my head. Throw it somewhere off the side of the bed, who knows where. He strokes my chest, but his eyes are wandering again. He fixes 'em on something, close by, just over my head. The bed frame. 

"Sit up, would you?" he says. 

So nice, so polite. I wonder what he'd do if I didn't do what he said? But I don't test that theory, I scooch up so I'm sitting. 

"Can you, uh, move so your back is, uhm, up against the head of the bed?" he says, and takes the pillows from behind my butt. 

"Sure, Frase," I tell him. I move back and feel the cold brass on my skinny back. 

"Good, good," he says, looking from the handcuffs to the bed frame and then the shackles. 

"All right..." he inhales, and picks up the handcuffs. He climbs onto the bed and over me, straddling my legs 'til he gets past them. The quick glance at me is a little embarrassed -- he ducks his head and then he's only looking at what he's doing. 

Then he takes my right hand and stretches my arm out full length, straight out from me like the wing of a small craft air plane. Up against the bed frame. The top bar of the bed frame. Like I've got my arms up on the back of a sofa or something. He puts on the first cuff. Snug. All the way around my wrist. He stops, thinks a moment, hooks the empty cuff through and over the bar, to cuff my wrist a second time. 

"For now..." he murmurs. Then he crawls back over me -- missing my hard-on, damn! -- and is on my other side, my left side, doing the same thing. But this time, with the shackles, he loops the chain around the long bar of the top of the bed frame, and my wrist, a few times. Then he closes the second shackle around my wrist, closes 'em down tight, as small as they will go. He looks at it, an' I can tell he's figuring that even if my wrists are skinny enough to get outta the leg shackles, they've got loops of chain wrapped around them and the top crossbar of the bed frame. 

He sits back, looks at me. My arms are held out straight from my shoulders, cuffed and shackled to the bed frame. It's like I'm crucified or something. The cold metal of the bed frame is a little warmer under my back. Something goes dark but soft in his eyes. He kisses me. Slow. Long. Hot. Rests his forehead against mine. 

"I don't know what to do, Ray," he whispers. 

"Whatever you want, Frase. I'm..." My voice catches. "I'm yours." I suddenly see, in my head, a bunch of possible things he could do to me now, too fast to say them -- if I could even put them into words -- and making me super-hard while terrifying me at the same time. 

Doesn't matter that I can't explain what I see in my head, cuz he interrupts me with another hot kiss, this one stronger and more restless. 

"My cock seriously wants to get free, if yer looking for ideas. Surprise me," I tell him. I try to sound confident and excited, but I probably sound excited and scared. 

"Surprise..." he whispers, and then kisses my mouth again, stroking his hand down the skin of my chest, which is rising and falling faster than just a few minutes ago. 

He sits back, surveys the helpless me. There's something in his eyes, not quite sad... It flashes and then it's gone. 

"You do have neckties you don't wear, don't you, Ray?" he asks me. And all of a sudden I think I know what he's gonna do, and I'm trying real hard not to look like I'm freaking out on the inside, which I am. 

"Yeah, Frase, in the closet, on the inside of the door, there's a tie rack. Check there. Anything outrageous or bright colored, just feel free to use." I try to control it but my voice shakes a little. And that's with _trying_ to control it.... 

He slides across my legs again, and off the bed, walking across the room. Riding pants tented around his hard cock. Oh, yeah. He opens the door, looks over the ties. Takes one, pauses. Takes another one. Another one? 

Now I'm a little worried. A blindfold, I figured. Good way to keep surprising me: I won't see anything coming. But the second one? What for? 

He comes back to the bed, puts down the one with red paisleys, and takes the other one with teal checks. He goes to tie it around my head, but I jerk back at the last second. 

Confused look on his face. "Ray?" 

"Just... just a sec, Frase," I say, nervous. "What's the other one for?" 

"Well... it's a surprise," he says, but he's starting to look like he feels bad. No, no, no! Not what I wanted. I just need to know what it's _not_ for. 

"It's not to gag me, is it?" 

His eyebrows go up and pink spots appear on his cheeks, but he shakes his head. 

"I, I know I mentioned that once before," he says, his voice a low murmur, "But, no, I hadn't intended it for that." 

"Oh," I say. So, for what, then? Now I'm freaking much less and more curious and excited. "Okay, then," I tell him, and nod at the soon-to-be blindfold in his hands. 

He goes to tie it around my eyes again, and then stops, sits back. 

"You will tell me when you need me to stop, won't you?" he asks, bright spots of red gone from his cheeks. 

"Yeah, 'course," I tell him. 

He gets up on his knees again, and ties the blindfold around me. Darkness, with a little crack of light between my nose and cheekbone. But he wraps the tie around one more time, and the crack of light is gone. I tense my arms, which I haven't done yet, and test the hold of the cuffs and shackles. 

I rattle and shake 'em. They're secure. There's no way I'm getting out of this without his help. 

Oh, shit. What did I just let myself in for? 

I'm hard, horny as hell, and riding this edge of... scared. Feel like I've got a fever. Hot and cold at the same time. Maybe that's just the bed frame, though. Every time Fraser moves around on the bed, I move... and my back moves... and then it's against new, cool metal that hasn't been touching my skin... so it isn't warm. 

"Frase?" I say, from my darkness. I just thought of something.... 

"Yes, Ray?" He's right nearby. 

"I might say... 'stop' when I don't really mean it... when I, I don't _really_ want you to stop, I just can't help saying it..." God, my cock wants out, out, out of my pants. They're so tight and uncomfortable. 

"Oh." 

"Maybe I should say somethin' else when I really mean it." 

"Oh. Of course," he replies slowly. I feel the warmth of him near my face, my chest, and then his fingertips graze my lips. "So what will you say when you _really_ mean I should stop?" 

I think about it. "Paisley," I tell him, my lips moving against his fingers. 

"Uh, Ray," he says, "will you remember that in the, er, throes of...." 

"Oh, good point. Um, uh... okay. How about 'red light'?" 

"That sounds good," he says and he sounds relieved. 

His fingertips are on my chin now, graze my neck, and stroke down my skinny chest to my stomach. I wanna arch into 'em, but being held against the bed frame this way makes it harder to do. 

"Ray," he says, suddenly close. My darkness is pierced with a warm, wet suck on one nipple, a gentle pinch on the other. 

"Oh, Frase," I groan, knowing it's starting. My heartbeat is picking up speed like a freight train headed outta the yards. 

"Ray," he murmurs, close by. Then a long, wet, warm trail slides down my chest to my navel, followed close by the cool evaporation of his spit. 

The cuffs and shackles press into my wrist on one side, my wrist and arm on the other side, when they strain against the metal. And the bed frame behind me feels cold again. I moved. I didn't even mean to do that. It just ...happened. 

The hot, wet tip of his tongue is in my navel and driving me nuts. The nerve feels like it's connected right to my cock, which is dying to get out, and can't. He's kneading my thighs, driving me nuts. 

"Frase..." I moan. Can't help it. 

"Yes, Ray," he breathes on the hair of my stomach, which tickles. 

"Can ya, can ya open my pants? Please?" I ask him. 

He stops, I feel his breath on my stomach. 

"No," he says. But he doesn't say it harsh or like a command. "No, I don't think so," he says, matter-of-fact. Like he's telling me, _no, it's not raining out_. 

"C'mon, Frase. Please. It's so fucking hard..." I whisper. 

"Soon," he replies. Wet tongue travels all along the waistband of my jeans, where it's cutting against my stomach because of the angle I'm sitting in. My thighs are loosening up under his strong hands. 

Tongue-tip in my navel again. Not expecting it. Jump. Moan. Feel the cuffs and shackles but my fingers are getting numb. The metal behind my back, that I'm up against -- keeps going from warm to cool. Every time I jump... 

Tongue-tip leaves. The bed moves. Dunno where he's going. Hear the sound of cloth on cloth. Taking his shirt off? 

The bed moves again. I feel him crawl up between my outstretched legs. 

Something presses on the hard mound under my tight jeans and I moan. It keeps pressing and rubbing, all around, real thorough... making me _really_ wanna bust out of the damn things. But I can't. 

"Frase... c'mon..." 

"Soon..." 

"How soon? I'm dying here!" 

"Soon." 

But I feel his fingers, strong and sure at the button to my fly. They unbutton it. But don't unzip it! The pressing and rubbing is back -- all over, all around, especially the head of my cock. Fuck! 

"Frase..." 

"Shhh, Ray," he says, and then my mouth is covered with his. I didn't know I was getting drymouth, but when his wet, warm mouth meets mine, I realize it. And still he's stroking and pressing on my cock through my jeans. 

The kiss is long and thorough. About halfway through it he starts unzipping my zipper... one freakin' zipper tooth at a time! I am gonna die here. Christ! Finally the whole zipper's down. I shoulda gone commando today.... 

He kisses down my mouth to my jaw, my neck. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, tickled by his breath and his teeth, scraping the sides of my neck lightly. Moves them down to my collar bone. 

Then the mouth's gone. But hands are pulling at my jeans. They tug the cloth over my thighs, slowly pulling 'em down. Instead of my cock getting a chance to bust out, it's being s-l-o-w-l-y exposed. Hurry up! 

He gets my jeans almost completely to my thighs, by which time my jumping cock has room to breathe in my briefs, and has time to be kinda sorry all that tight sensation is gone. 

The waistband of my briefs suddenly comes open when he grabs it. 

"Can you pick up your buttocks, Ray?" he asks me, pulling on the briefs. I do. My hands are almost numb... but the bed frame's cool against my back again. He gets the briefs off. 

I can feel his breath on my pubic hair, but no action! 

"Whaddaya doing, just looking at it?" I demand. 

"As a matter of fact, yes," he says softly. "You're so beautiful, Ray. Your cock--" he says it almost shy "--is so beautiful." 

A hand closes around it and jacks me once, twice, slow and tight. 

"Oh, yeah, Frase," I tell him. But then he stops. Why!? 

Then I feel his breath again and a split second before he does it, I know what's gonna happen. 

Wet, slick, slippery suction. He sucks the head into his mouth. Oh God. Yeah. Yeah. More. More. 

Then he stops! 

"Hmmm." is all he says, and then I feel him moving around on the bed, reaching over me. 

Suddenly there's a satiny soft stroke around the base of my cock... around my balls. 

My cock and balls get tied loosely. It's the second tie he took from the tie rack. My balls are away from my body now, since he tied them up. Loosely. At first. Then he tightens the tie. Not super-tight. But snug. 

Suddenly wet, warm, tight suction on my cock. His mouth again. I can't stop thrusting. And each thrust moves the cold bed frame behind my back. 

"Oh, yeah, yeah, Fraser, mmmm...." 

He doesn't answer, mouth filled with cock. I'm dying here. I could go off like a rocket right now... 'Cept I can't. I'm close... feels like it's right there, just about... 

He stops sucking. 

"Oh, Frase! Don't stop!" 

"Shhhhh," he says. And then he's gone. 

The bed moves wildly, like he's standing or something. More warmth comes to my face and I feel the nearness of his body. I smell cock. 

Oh. Okay. Sure thing. 

The head of his cock pokes gently at my lips and I open them and give the head a few good sucks, getting it wet. 

Without warning, it moves slowly, but strongly, unstoppable, through my lips, stopping at the back of my throat. My face is smashed into the open fly of his riding pants, his short hairs tickling my nose. 

Okay, I been here before. Can't breathe, but that's just a temporary thing. Sure 'nough, he pulls out. I breathe. He pushes in again, I don't breathe. He pulls out again, and I make the suction good while he's pulling out. 

He moans. 

Yeah, Frase. Go. Do it. Use me. Fuck me. 

The pushing in and pulling out of my mouth gets faster, but not too fast. Every once in a while he sinks a choker on me, everything blocked. Throat spasm. Gag reflex. Can't help it. He pulls out and then goes back to fucking my mouth more shallow. 

Feels like I been at the dentist, mouth open too long an' still open. But that's okay. 

'Cept I'm aching for sensation down below, and nothing's happening there. 

Like he read my mind, he pulls all the way out of my mouth. Then I feel him sit down straddling my knees, his riding pants against my naked legs. He moves his mouth against mine and grips my cock. Rough strokes. I moan into his mouth. 

"Like that?" he whispers, loosening his grip. 

"Yeah, Frase, don't stop..." 

"I thought you said you might say stop and not mean it, Ray," he says, low and quiet. But I can hear that he's amused. "All you keep saying is that I shouldn't stop." He stops stroking my cock. 

"Well... you keep stopping!" Thrust up at his hand, but it does no good. I feel him move off my legs. 

"But it's just to make it all the better for you, Ray," he says, and his voice sounds raw. 

I swallow. Nobody, no one, not Stella, not one single person ever treated me this good, ever even _bothered_ to work me over this way. I suppose over the years, all the Vice busts I've done, I could have found someone I could've _paid_ to do me like this... 

But that wouldn't have been like _this_. 

"I -- I know, Frase," I whisper. "You know I'm all yours." And I mean every word. 

The rough jerking of my cock suddenly starts up again, fast and hard. Within seconds I'm moaning again. 

A hand's under my knee, my right knee, bending it. Okay, all right, I can go with this. He's still jacking me, but I can tell his mind is on something else. 

He pushes my knee up, and back, as far as it will go -- which is practically my armpit. Stops jacking me... the hand goes away... 

Another hand under my other knee, pushing it up and out to the side more than the other. My bony back is shoved up harder against the cold, hard, bed frame. I'm spread wide. I feel like... like... he's looking at me, my tied up cock and balls... my ass... spread wide. Naked. 

Then quick there's warm breath on my balls and, oh, damn, he's sucking on 'em and I can't help but moan. Warm, wet... When do I get to come! It feels so good, even if there's a taut stretch-pain in my hamstrings. 

I feel him change positions or move somehow, and then my legs are let go. They come down by themselves, over his warm, smooth shoulders. And he's between my legs, still sucking and licking my balls. Feels like my cock is gonna 1) explode but B) it can't so it's just throbbing hard. It's like my cock became my heart and with every beat it throbs. 

The tie tightens a little around my cock and balls. Oh, fuck. Now I'll never come.... 

The hot wetness of his tongue moves down. Oh, _man_. He's licking me, up and down, between my balls and my ass. God! Fucking tease! My cock is throbbing here, or stick something in my ass -- but please, not this ticklish, teasing shit! 

"Fraser... Frase... come on, I'm so hard, I'm gonna come, Frase, please untie my cock." The sound of my begging is ...like nothing I've _ever_ heard come outta my mouth. "I'm gonna come soon, I _gotta_ come soon. Please..." 

"No, no..." he murmurs. His voice vibrates through my balls, turning it up another notch. God. I can't stand it. But I can't come. "Not yet," Frase tells me. "Soon." 

I can't help it. I writhe, I shake, I try to get out, I rattle the cuffs and shackles holding me to the bed frame. 

I can't get loose. 

"Ray..." 

"Fraser, let me go! Let me come! Please!" 

"Now, Ray," he begins. "Let me finish what I was doing..." 

He pushes my thighs farther apart, and goes back to licking between my balls and ass. Only now, his tongue is finally hitting my ass. And it's great, but, but... 

Okay, okay. He's getting it wet. I know what this means. 

My legs come up on their own. Yeah, my ass knows what it wants. Give it to me. I'll come that way for sure. 

But all I get are these teasing little licks. Damn! 

"Fraser..." 

"Ray, you might make me change my mind about the gag..." 

"Well, I sure as hell don't need to say 'stop', cuz all I'm thinking is _gogogo_!" 

Not thinking how if I'd just stop _talking_ to him, he could get on with it. Duh... 

"Now, Ray," he says, perfectly normal, matter-of-fact tone of voice. 

Then a thoroughly wet finger pierces my ass, when I'm least expecting it. Spasm, jerk, moan. No come! Shit! 

"Frase, Frase, Frase..." 

The finger retreats. No, come on... don't do that... 

Oh. Just to make the tie around my cock and balls tighter. I'm gonna kill him! _How_ I'm gonna kill him, I have no idea, considering I'm strung up by both arms, and can't do shit right now... But when he uncuffs me, he is gonna get it! 

And then, just as sudden, mouth on my cock, finger in my ass. And I'm moaning, thrusting everything in his direction, clenching. It pulls on my arms, but I don't care. Greedy little fucktoy me, I'm trying to _make_ myself come... and it ain't happening. I'm getting to the point where I can't even think... the only thing I think is Frase, please, Frase, please, Frase-- 

Another finger. _God_. Fuck! Lemme come, lemme come, lemme come-- 

"Not yet," he whispers, pausing in his sucking. I didn't even know I said anything out loud. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Please! 

"Fraserrrrrrrr...." there's nothing in my world but the cold metal frame against my back, his mouth on my cock, his fingers in my ass. And then he makes it all stop again! God! I'm gonna kill him! 

"Fraser, finish me off! Come on! I'm dying here! I can't _take_ this! If you don't finish me, I'm gonna fucking kill you!" 

The doorbell rings. 

"Ray? Should I... get that?" Sounds so normal and matter-of-fact! 

"Are you out of your mind? Of course don't get that!" 

"But it's the pizza you ordered." 

"Shit!" 

"Well?" 

I try to think fast but I can't think at all. All I can think about is the fire tied up between my legs, aching to explode. 

"No. Don't get it. They'll call about the pizza." 

"As you wish..." he says. 

I feel the bed move again but now he's not touching me anywhere where I _need_ to be touched. I pull my legs up and spread them again. 

"Put your legs down," he says. That's me, a little slutboy. But only for him. _His_ little slutboy. I do what he says and put my legs down. 

Once my feet are on the mattress, he says, "Please hold your buttocks up off the bed for a moment, Ray." 

So I do. And then I feel him stuffing first one pillow under my ass... then the other. 

"Let your buttocks down, now," he says quietly. I do. 

Now he grabs my ankles again. He pulls my legs up and pushes them back. My back moves against the bed frame again and I feel cool metal. But everything is so hot between my legs... 

"Hold your legs up," he whispers. I don't know if I can -- they shake with the effort. I'm not a freakin' gymnast. But I try. 

I hear him unzip the zipper of his riding pants. All of a sudden I'm breathing faster. Oh, please. _Finally_. I hear a little smacking sound, and then I feel the heat of him up close. The wet head of his cock teases my hole, just gently touching it. 

"Hold on, Ray," he whispers. For a split second, I laugh, a crazy, delirious laugh. Hold on? What am I supposed to hold onto? _I'm_ being _held_. By the cuffs and the shackles he put on me. 

I start to take a breath to say something along these lines, but I don't even get the chance to do that. 

He _impales_ me. There really is no other word to describe it. 

My ass parts, cuz it has to. Pierced. Hurts. Impaled. _So good_. Filled. Fire. Clench, twitch, moan. Feels like I'm ready to shoot but I can't, I can't, I _can't_... 

I feel one hand on my ankle, pushing it so far up and back it touches the cold bed frame. I'll be sore in my hamstrings tomorrow, but I don't care. Fraser's other hand -- he must be holding onto the bed frame. Cuz I can feel his arm -- or wrist? -- against the top of my arm. 

He starts moving. Gentle at first. I feel his arm brush my forearm with every thrust into my ass. His other hand grips my ankle tight. With him filling my ass, and me dying to come, I can't hold my other leg up. I give up. I let it fall forward and it goes against his stomach or chest. His arm moves from the bed frame. Then I feel him stroke my calf and put it over his shoulder. So good to me. His arm brushes my shackled one again and he must be holding the bed frame again. 

The phone rings. 

He doesn't stop. The first few pull-outs were slow; the thrusts back in were rough and fast. But now he changes speed and style. He fucks me harder but longer strokes -- almost all the way out, and then rams it in to the hilt. The phone rings more. The cloth of his riding pants brushes my ass each time he rams into me. My back's being banged up against the cool bed frame again and again. 

Hard in, rough out, and faster. And faster. It's too fucking good. I'm dying. He's filling me up with that thick Mountie cock, shoving it in to the hilt. The phone rings one last time. Sometimes, when you're having sex, the simplest shit is beyond freaky. It's like the only three things that exist in the world are my ass being filled by Fraser, my coming explosion -- and the fucking phone ringing. 

My ass is spasming, impaled over and over. I'm on that edge, on that bleeding edge, ready to fall off it, doing everything I can to help it along... an' it ain't happening! My cock aches, twitches, throbs -- probably drooling all over the place... My balls are tight, everything's gathered, ready to explode... His arm brushes away from my shackled arm one more time. The bed's shaking, I'm being jammed against the bed frame every time he thrusts into me, and the bed frame is hitting the wall. It's outta control and it's so great, I can't stand it. He's giving it to me _so_ good and I'm _so_ close... 

There's the softest tug and I feel a satiny whisper of silk all around my cock and balls. The tight binding loosens... Silk, ticklish and _too much_ , strokes across my balls, as Fraser somehow unties and pulls the tie off me while fucking my ass. 

Everything _overloads_. 

Rockets. It's all unleashed. I come _hard_ , like fucking Mt. St. Helen's blowing her top off. Each spurt feels like a gushing jet and I feel it travel from my balls up through my cock and out, like in slomo, porno detail. Except I can't see shit, I can only feel it, _all_ of it. I can't help it: I throw my head back. The cold metal of the bed frame on the nape of my neck makes me shiver while everything else squeezes and clenches. I spurt into my chest but one glob hits me in the chin, I'm coming so hard. I don't know how many times I spurt. It's endless but somehow it's coming to an end. 

Something sounds like a cat-fight or a cat mating. That yowling, what do they call it, 'caterwauling'... I realize it's me. I am literally seeing stars behind my blindfolded darkness. On the backs of my closed eyelids, I can't see anything but splotches of color on black. Can't see anything but what my cock and my ass and my brain are doing: exploding. Oh. Because my eyes are squeezed shut so tight... 

"Ah, ah, oh, uhn, uhn..." 

My body just shakes. I realize I have no idea if _he_ came. He's barely moving now, just little jerky thrusts. But I'm like a shaking bowl of Jell-O. I'm dizzy and can't take much more. Practically out cold. TKO. 

There's a whimper sound like a puppy or a baby. 

It's _me_. 

"Ray?" comes Frase's husky, raw voice. He sounds like some Swami guy who hasn't spoken in twenty-five years. Maybe it was good for him, too. 'Good for him'... Puh-lease. This puts a _whole_ new spin on "was it good for you?". 

"Frase... B-benton..." I stutter. Can't talk. Can't organize my brain. Put. Thoughts. Into. Words. "Oh, my God." 

That wasn't the thought I wanted. 

"B-blown away." He pulls his cock outta me, slow. It makes my hole twitch again... And I can't stifle another moan ...it feels so good. And... stretched. Wonder if I'll be sore... 

Blown away. That's close to it, but it doesn't really say what I mean. Nothing can. The darkness under my blindfold is a warm pink darkness, even though it's still as dark as it was before. 

I can't believe it's over. My hands feel like they're far away. Probably cutting off the circulation. I feel heat near my chest... then warm, wet tongue. He's licking my come off me. 

"Frase... oh, my God. You're unbelievable. Yer too good to me." Babbling. His tongue licks my jaw line, my chin. Getting those last drops of come. 

"Can ya... Frase, c-can ya uncuff me..." I can barely talk; I'm floating in a big pool of Bliss with a capital B. 

"Oh, of course." He moves away. Then I hear him inhale, sharp. "Oh... my." I hear him swallow. 

"What is it? ...Oh, Fraser. Ya blow my mind. That was the most unbelievable... I feel like a wet dish rag..." 

The bed moves, bounces a little. 

I hear him move quick outta the room, down the hall. Then he's coming back real quick, too. Jingling. Keys. 

Oh. Right. Need keys to free arms. Forgot about that... 

He's up at the one wrist, unlocking the cuffs. Straddling me. The cuff comes off, and I yelp. Intense pins and needles: the blood's coming back into my hand. I just let my arm drop when he frees my wrist. Couldn't hold it up if I wanted to, anyway. He moves over me. I can feel the heat of his body near my chest. He's unlocking the other wrist. That one falls like a puppet's arm when the string breaks. And I moan more, feeling the spike of sensation as the blood comes back. I just slump against the metal of the bed frame. 

The hardware jangles against the bed. Either falling down the brass bars, or just falling off, or he's taking it off. 

"Are you all right, Ray?" comes his nervous voice. 

"I am so great, Frase, you have no idea..." Babbling again. Can't help it. 

His arms go under me, under my knees, behind my back. He moves me down to lay flat on the bed. So good to me, this man. Dunno why. I'm the luckiest guy in the world. I know I don't deserve it. 

"Fraser..." Lips. Form. Words. "Kiss me..." 

"Ray..." I feel him move over me, kiss me gentle. "I'm afraid--" 

"Doesn't matter, whatever it is," I interrupt, breathing the warmth of his nearness on my lips. 

"You might not agree when I take this off..." The heat of his nearness goes away and his fingers are gentle behind my head, untying the tie and taking it off me. Feel him sit back on the bed. Close, but not touching me. 

It's too fucking bright in here. Even though the table lamp is on the dimmest setting. I blink and leave my eyes shut. Throw my arm over my eyes and then feel a sting on top of the pins and needles that feel like they are breeding in my arms. 

"Ray... your wrist. Your arm. I'm sorry..." 

They're so... so... I've never _felt_ them so much before. 

"They're fine, Frase..." It's weird. I've gone through this kinda thing before. Arm falling asleep under my pillow. My ankles when I took my ice skates off after hockey in high school. It just never felt like this before... connected to mind-blowing sex. 

"No, Ray, I'm afraid they are not..." He sounds bad. That snaps me out of it. Well, as much as possible... which isn't much. Open. Eyes. Roll head. Move arm, ah, ah, ah, pins and needles. 

There's red dents and impressions of the shackles and the chain, from my wrist to the middle of my forearm. The worst is right at the wrist. It's lighter and shallower farther away from my wrist. I look over at my other arm. Not quite as bad. Quality instead of quantity. Red and raw but smaller and deeper on the inside of my wrist. 

"Oh, shit," I say. But, really, I can't make myself care. "Frase... it's okay. Don't worry. They'll be fine." 

I don't know if that's really true, but for some reason I'm not real concerned. My eyes close. Must be the orgasm high. The drowsiness taking me down. 'Cept my stomach's growling now. And my hands throb slow. 

"But, Ray, when you go to work tomorrow--" 

"Ah, Frase, ya had to remind me work exists. For a while there I thought there was nothing but you and me in our own little world." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Jus' lay down here with me, will ya?" I whisper. Can't trust my normal voice now. 

Few seconds, then he's flat alongside me. Skin and cloth -- his riding pants. Want skin, skin and more skin, but this is okay too. Throw an arm and leg over him. Try to squeeze him, more pins and needles. 

"Fraser. Love you. Hold me. Please." Beyond asking or begging. Just saying it. Statement: Want something. Give it to me. 

He gathers me up in his arms, squeezes. The pins and needles in my arms are receding. 

"Fraser..." 

"Ray..." he breathes into my neck, kissing me there. Lets me go a little bit, to lay back on the bed, but he kisses me, smoothes my brow. Dunno when was the last time someone smoothed my brow. Probably Mom when I was 12 and sick. He kisses my forehead. Sweet. 

"Frase. Whatever my arms look like, I don't care. I don't want you to care. It was worth it, okay? It was worth every scrape." 

"But, Ray..." 

"No, no _buts_ , Frase. It. Was. Worth. It." I can't wait to do something like this again. I mean, of course I can wait: I can't do _anything_ right now. I'm useless for like the next two hours. But I wanna. Do more. Soon as possible. 

"All... all right," his mouth murmurs against mine. He doesn't sound real satisfied. 

I drag my eyes open, look up into his blue-blue eyes. "It was, Frase. My arms, they'll heal. You put me on another planet... and you and me were the only people there." 

His arms tighten around me. There's only one problem now... Starving. 

"Frase... can ya... can ya please get my cell phone? Let's call the pizza guys, see if they'll bring the pizza back..." 

"Of course. Just a moment." So polite, so sweet, so kind. Then there's me, Detective Slob. I can't speak any other languages. I'm rude and sometimes crude. Dunno what he's doing with me... But, hey, I'm not arguing. 

He comes back with my cell. Sits on the bed. 

"Hit Function-9." Yeah, I have a pizza delivery programmed into my cell phone's memory. I hear it dial. He puts it up to my ear. I open my eyes again, look at him. I should say something, something about what an unbelievable good guy he is. But all I can do is look him in the eyes, thinking, _Why are you so good to me?_ And he don't stop looking in mine. Wonder what he's thinking. 

"Yeah. This is Kowalski, apartment 303, on Erie. I ordered a pizza about... I dunno, an hour and a half ago." The chick starts bitching and I close my eyes. "I know, I know, I'm sorry... I was, uh--" I open my eyes and he's still looking at me. I look into his eyes while I lie to the outside world. "--I was in the basement doing laundry and then I got an important phone call. Do ya still have the pizza?" 

More bitching. I reach out a mostly-normal hand and squeeze Frase's nearest hand while his other hand holds my phone up to my ear. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's cold and it's old. Fine. Can you have the guy bring it over again? No, ya don't have to warm it. We'll microwave it. Yeah. Tell the guy there's a nice big tip in it for his inconvenience, okay? We'll make it worth a second trip. Okay. Okay. Yeah, sorry about that. Thanks." 

We're still looking at each other. I nod at him, jerk my head. He takes the phone away, presses the End button. Something looks funny about him, but I can't figure what. My hand on his wrist squeezes harder. 

"They'll bring it back," I tell him. Not exactly what was on my mind, looking at him. He's looking... I dunno. Not quite worried... There's Love with a capital L in his eyes... but Trouble with a capital T, too. Gotta head this off. 

I tug on his wrist, think different, hold out a hand for him to pull me up so I'm sitting. He does, silently. 

"Frase. Don't worry." I slide my arms around him, feeling the rawness of my wrists as they pass over his suspenders. Oh well. The price to be paid. It was worth it. And whatever's wrong with him, I don't want him to feel bad. 

"Please, Frase," I whisper into the side of his neck. "Ya gotta believe me. Okay? Don't worry about my arms... they'll get over it. We'll, we'll, um, we'll use somethin' different next time, guess the cuffs and shackles weren't such a good idea... Something less ...damaging. Okay? We're learning. Right?" 

I feel a small shudder through his body as his arms go around me. He squeezes me so hard, my breath is squeezed out. "Oh, Ray. I'm--" 

"Stop apologizing, Frase. You didn't know. I didn't know. It's not like you did it on purpose, right? Okay, mistake's a mistake. No biggie. I don't want you feeling bad about this. In fact," I take a deep breath. "In fact, I wanna go where... where ya took me tonight... again. Soon." 

Something occurs to me that I never really thought of before. 

I'm not gonna be able to convince him, unless he goes through what I went through. 

Sudden vision of him cuffed -- no, tied. With rope... no, with all the ugly Christmas-present ties I ever got, something soft, that won't leave marks. Tied up to the bed. To _my_ bed. Ready to be teased. Sucked. Fucked. 

Whoa. 

But, ya know, I bet he'd love it once he let go and got into it. Letting go... always been his problem. Never been mine. 

But I'm the one who wants that all the time... Just, just, I never really thought of this before. But maybe that's the only way to make him see. An' I think of all the things he did to me... I could do them to him... 

"You're coming with me, too," I tell him. I don't say how, an' I don't know how kosher it'd be... We'll see about that. We'll see about everything. It's all good. 

"But I did, Ray." Figures; he took me literally. 

Well, I'm glad he came with me. Simultaneous orgasms, and I was so fucking blown away, I didn't even know it. But that wasn't what I meant... but there's plenty of time to explain that... besides, he might have to do some more to me, to give me more ideas.... Yeah... 

"Not like I did... You'll see. Don't worry about it, Frase. Okay? It's all right. I swear." 

"All right, Ray," he whispers. 

The doorbell rings. Yeah! Food. Starved. 

He loosens his grasp, and I do too. 

"I'll get that," he says. Look up at him quick as he gets off the bed, but he keeps his eyes from me. They look ...wet. Not... crying? Frase? 

I hope it's happy tears. Something about him looks so ...little boy/big man: hair mussed, sweat drying at his temples, sex smells coming off his riding pants. 

I reach out and grab his hand just before he turns to go. Squeeze it, hard, quick. He looks at me, queer little smile. The look on his face ...clears, a little. Seems calmer. Less worried. Good. 

He squeezes back, quick, then slips outta my grip and goes into the hall to press the intercom button, talk to the speaker, and then buzz the guy up. 

I shoulda answered the door, but... 1) ain't got no clothes on and B) gotta find a long sleeved shirt that's clean... 

He comes back into my room with the pizza box and the free liter of soda. Stops, looks at me, looks around the room. 

I move to the far side of the bed. Pull the bedside table over, take the lamp off it and put it on the floor. Shove everything else off it \-- change, etc. -- and look at Frase. 

He looks at the stuff that fell on the floor, but he comes over and puts the pizza on the table, doesn't even say nothing about the stuff that fell on the floor, or try to pick it up. Hmmm. That's different... 

I move on the bed and reach for the pillows. Grab 'em and put 'em behind my ass and back, between me and the cold bed frame. 

I sit back against the pillows, and even though I can smell the pizza, I'm suddenly so exhausted, I can't hardly lift a hand to get a slice. I let my eyes drift shut, take a deep breath and sigh it out. 

The bed moves. 

He moves on the bed, to sit next to me, then pushes me forward, and climbs behind me. Sits down against my pillows on the bed frame, between me and the pillows. Sticks his legs out on either side of me. Puts his arms around me from behind. One across my chest, one around my collar bone, though it moves up to my throat when he hugs me tight against his chest. Puts his cheek against my ear. Squeezing me tight. 

Then he lets go and loosens up and leans over to the table with the pizza on it, moving my little rag-doll-skinny-ass body with his solid one. 

Next thing I know, there's a slice of pizza right under my nose. He's holding a slice up to my mouth. 

I take a bite. Chew, swallow. Even cold pizza is great. S'pose anything'd be great to my hollow stomach now, but this is especially great. Everything's great. He puts the slice up to his mouth, his arm tightening a little over my neck. Stretches his neck out to bite off the slice of pizza. Moves the slice back to my mouth. 

I push it a little ways away, and lean forward a little, so I can turn around, and look at him. His eyes are dark, pupils wide. Like he's high, 'cept he's the last person in the world to get high. 

Except maybe... orgasmically. Yeah. 

Kiss him, mouth full. Can't help it. Swallow it and talk. 

"Hey, Frase. I didn't say 'red light' once," I realize. "No 'red light's at all." 

He stops chewing and looks at me. Swallows, looking unsure. 

I turn back around, reach my dead tired arm to get a slice of pizza. Twist back to him, leaning back against his arm, and hold it up to his mouth. 

All this stuff rolls across his eyes and face while he looks at the slice of pizza and at me. It's like, scared-excited-worry-joy. 

Wonder if -- when -- we'll get to the 'red light's. Right now, I can't believe there are any and I don't think too hard how far things would have to go before I'd find 'em. Save that for later. Now is good. 

I remember suddenly that I wanted to kill him earlier, when he was teasing and torturing me and wouldn't let me come. And I completely forgot about that. Cuz now, I don't wanna kill him. I'm crazy for him. Now more than ever. He said it was all so it would be better for me. _All the better for you, Ray_. And it was. 

He tilts his head an' I meet him halfway to my mouth. Sweet kiss. Not a peck, but not too long. Making me know he's pretty much okay with this. Now, anyway. I know him... he'll worry. And want it again and hesitate and not say anything. I'll deal with that when it happens. 

He pulls back. I open my mouth, looking at him. 

He meets my eyes again, and his face is calm and satisfied. Sweet. 

Good. Pizza comes to my mouth, while we're looking each other in the eye. I bite. I chew. 

I slide down his chest and stomach, 'til I'm laying in the cradle of his legs, my head on his thigh. Hold the slice I got in my hand up to his mouth, and look up into his face. He bites, chews. 

I swallow my mouthful and open my mouth. He feeds me more pizza. Sounds stupid but he looks so tender. I feel like my heart's in my throat. It's never been like this with anyone. Before now. Before him. 

I let my eyes fall shut, chewing and swallowing. It doesn't get any better than this. 

But that won't stop us from _trying_ for better, I don't think....  
   
   
   
  

end  
   
   
   
   
  

Note: 

  1. The story title comes from the song "Johnny Feelgood" by Liz Phair and this is also what Ray is singing and humming. It is from her whitechocolatespaceegg CD. You can listen to it online at http//hollywoodandvine.com/lizphair/ You need the RealPlayer to do so -- you can get it at http://www.realplayer.com/. A fast connection helps too. 
  2. The phrase "they will not be permanently damaged" in my disclaimer is stolen from a Darth Vader line in "The Empire Strikes Back" when he is speaking to Boba Fett about Han Solo's torture. He says, "He will not be permanently damaged". I, of course, mean it in a _loving_ way. Okay, I admit it -- Han Solo restrained on that upright platform thingy just gave my adolescent mind _way_ too much to think about. And there is something Han Solo-ish about Ray Kowalski... 



Verushka appreciates feedback.  
   
 


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